


they won’t get to us

by oftachancer



Series: travels in time [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Branching narrative, Consensual bondage, Evil Inquisitor (Dragon Age), M/M, Mage Enslavement, Multiverse, POV Dorian Pavus, Racism, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: In a world where mages are enslaved by their Templar ‘guardians’, chained and unleashed like weapons of mass destruction, Dorian Pavus found protection in the shadow of an intimidating qunari. When a strange rogue who knows far too much appears in the middle of a mission, Dorian and the Iron Bull work to discover what the rogue’s secret is by playing to his most obvious weakness.





	1. unexpected silver

Dorian could feel them watching. Every moment of every day. Suspicion glinting in their beady, simple-minded gazes. Nevertheless, the show had to continue, didn’t it? He resisted the urge to adjust the gauche amulet around his neck and gritted his teeth. Honestly, didn’t these people have anything better to do than gape? He was there for them, after all. _With_ them, despite their ignorance and stupidity. To recover lost soldiers and rebuild stability and save the bloody awful world.

“Damn this damp,” he muttered to himself. His robes were sticking to him in the infernal drizzle and here was their fearless leader, agreeing to carefully check each and every nook and cranny for Avvars and apostates when there were hordes of the undead easily spotted from any vantage. Power was power, though. Eamonn Cadash had never, to his knowledge, walked away from an opportunity for influence or gold. Dorian scowled at the Inquisitor's back, hissing quietly as a large hand landed on his shoulder. 

The Iron Bull met his gaze with a single, sharp shake of his head.

“What is the point of us doing this?” Dorian whispered. “Surely Leliana’s pets need something to-“

Bull’s eye narrowed. “Not here.”

Dorian pressed his lips together, jaw tight, but he did manage a polite bow of his head as Eamonn returned to them. He even held his tongue. He should have received a reward right there and then.

“Word is the Avvars have their keep to the north in the Mire. We kill them, there’s gold and gear in it for us.”

“And we’ll recover the Inquisition’s men,” Blackwall reminded the Inquisitor quietly. Good old Blackwall, always trying to guide them towards a semblance of heroism.

Cadash patted the Warden’s shoulder with a toothy grin. “If they’re still alive. Of course.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” the qunari met the dwarf’s smile with a quick nod and snapped his fingers to the side. “Saarebas. With me.”

Dorian stepped to his side obediently, head down, eyes averted. It was, frankly, a ridiculous charade. A poisonous one. But if there was one thing the Iron Bull could do, it was convince others to trust him. He had a way with them. Before he’d come to this godforsaken land, Dorian had thought he’d had that way about him, too. How wrong he’d been. Yet. The miracle of the Iron Bull kept him safe from the horrors that awaited most of his ilk, trodding about in relative peace and comfort. None of the barbarity of real binding collars, Silencing or, worse, Tranquility. He simply wore the ‘cursed amulet’ and they all willingly believed the lie that the heavy chunk of iron with its big glowing quartz was somehow managing to keep him in check, through some mysterious qunari anti-magic. Maker forbid the qunari ever _ did _ come up with such a device. 

They spent the day killing… shock and surprise… bogfishers and stumbling undead. No Venatori. No Inquisition soldiers. Not even Avvars. ‘Clearing the field,’ Eamonn called it. Wasting their time, more like. Yet he still couldn’t quite bring himself to go. Not yet. Not until Corypheus was dealt with. At least one Tevinter had to stand against the Mad Magister. It was the principle of the thing. 

He sat, biting his tongue and biding his time, in yet another cave (of all hellish places) where they’d wisely elected to make camp. Blackwall and the Iron Bull sharpened their blades from the day’s grind. Cadash tallied and mapped, casting speculative glances at the others as he worked. He was right to be suspicious. Such was the danger of leading through fear. Fear and fury were close handmaidens. 

Another glorious day in service to the immaculate Inquisition.

* * *

The clatter of armor being hastily donned woke him, though the roar that set their shelter to shuddering likely would have. Possibly. He’d clearly slept through a previous roll of thunder. “What the devil?”

“Sounds like a rift opening,” Blackwall murmured.

“Yeah,” Bull agreed. “A big one.”

“Demons,” Cadash flexed his hand on his bow. “Let’s go and teach them some respect, boys.”

The cave they’d slumbered in so peacefully, it seemed, had a small crevice opening into a larger cavern beyond. They’d have missed it, surely, without the hubbub alerting them to the direction of the demons. 

And undead, it turned out. And wraiths. And- 

“Time to work, Saarebas.”

Dorian cast his shields, hovering at the back of the group as they charged ahead; Bull and Blackwall to take the brunt of the attack while Cadash found a higher vantage point to aim from. 

The interesting thing was… there was someone else in the stone circle with them. They saw him bobbing and weaving, silver glinting in his hands, as he managed to stay just a step or two ahead of sure death. Hair so blonde it might well have been white, braided in the Dalish style, and spattered with ichor and blood. He was quick, certainly, and he seemed to actually have killed two of the corpses on his own, but he was outmatched. 

Dorian sent a wave of fire pouring from the end of his staff towards the despair demon taking aim at the stranger, then cast a shield over him. He _ was _ fighting the creatures with his compatriots, after all. Even with Blackwall and the Iron Bull, the battle would likely have been too much for the four of them alone. One more blade, one more body… every little bit helped. 

From his vantage, Dorian watched the stranger move alongside the warriors in eerie precision. Rather than steering clear of Bull - as anyone with a lick of sense seeing a charging qunari might - he slipped in close, keeping just out of the way of the swinging axe and used the Bull’s chains and charges to take different angles of attack across the field. In fact, he moved between the two armored men like they were shields themselves, dodging between them and using the time in between to flank the demons by rolling behind them or circling out of the wraiths’ line of sight to strike. He didn’t even seem particularly phased by the arrow shards that poured down overhead from Cadash’s bow. He simply ducked behind the Iron Bull or beneath Blackwall’s shield or even dodged under the enemy when they flew, as though he expected it. By the time the last of the enemies fell, Dorian was fascinated. The stranger had turned the battle from a nearly impossible grind into something almost like… art. 

Grumbling, Cadash raised his hand to the weakened, greenish glow and sealed the rift. In the fading verdant light, the scene on the field of battle was like a fresco. Bull - massive and armored, his horns glinting, bare chest flexed and sweaty and slick with the residue of his fallen foes. Blackwall - bringing the large shield to rest, plate scales covering every inch of him but his thick, red-gold beard. The white-haired stranger folded in half, red-faced and panting amidst the carnage, an artless, sideways smile creasing his marked features. 

“Good thing you came along,” the stranger‘s voice was a breathless tenor, almost laughing, apparently unconcerned that he was still, technically, surrounded. “I am out of practice.”

Out of practice? _ This _ was out of practice? Dorian nearly squawked. 

“Drop your weapons,” Cadash’s voice echoed intimidatingly from the top of his boulder.

“Eh?” The man lifted his head, searching and finding the dwarf in a moment. His eyes… Maker, his eyes were a kaleidoscope of color - blue, green, and purple, twisting and writhing together around full pupils. Fademarked? Possessed? Something else? Something new?

“Weapons. Down,” Cadash repeated. “Gentlemen, if you’d assist him.”

”You’re kidding, right?”

The Iron Bull hesitated, just barely, a flicker of the eyes, before he stepped towards the man.

“Hey, whoa, we’re all friends here,” the white-haired stranger (with the… scars? Tattoos?) held his hands aloft and slowly, one by one, sheathed his daggers crossways at his back. “See?” He was staring at Iron Bull as though the qunari was supposed to… do… what? Did they know each other? “I’m not your enemy,” he said slowly. His cadence reminded Dorian vaguely of one of Skyhold’s barmaids, from one of the Free Marches. Not Starkhaven, though the brogue was similar to Blackwall’s. Varric might have been able to place it.

“We can decide that for ourselves.” Cadash lined up an arrow, “Disarm.” 

“I’m no threat to you. I swear it.”

“Boss?” Bull waited, holding his stance and his axe, as Blackwall circled around behind the waiting stranger. 

“I’m going to take your weapons now, lad,” the Warden told him quietly. “Don’t give him a reason to kill you and you’ll get them back. You’ve my word.”

The stranger didn’t move his eyes from the arrow aimed at him, but he nodded slightly. “I'm quite literally staking my life on that, right now.”

Dorian wondered if it occurred to the Inquisitor that Blackwall’s careful check of the man for additional weapons also put his shield between them. 

“Two daggers. Armor.” Blackwall reported, nearly nose to nose with the man. “I’m no Templar, Inquisitor, but I'm fair sure he’s no apostate. He’d have used those skills to defend himself before we got here. And fair handy skills they were.”

The words did more to protect the now disarmed man more than any shield. For all that Cadash hated all things that had the indecency to even resemble magic, he did like strength; especially when that strength was an impressive prowess in battle. It helped him accomplish his goals and he enjoyed the prestige of managing his stable of worthy, terrifying recruits. He placed the end of his longbow on the stone near his foot, considering the potential. “Name?”

“Aran,” the stranger said. “Aran Tr- Travers.” The stutter was fair enough considering he was surrounded and at a severe disadvantage, but Dorian saw Bull’s expression sharpen with curiosity. For a moment, only, but it was enough.

It was Blackwall who slapped him on the shoulder with a friendly nod. "Well met, Travers."

“Thank you,” Aran met Blackwall’s steady gaze, then caught Bull’s eye again, serious, “Hello. Hello,” he nodded to Cadash. “Hell- oh,” he turned towards Dorian… and froze. 

It was not unlike being eaten alive. Only more pleasant. Dorian had grown attuned to interpreting stares in his lifetime. If a childhood in Tevinter hadn’t given him fluency, his experiences since coming to Ferelden had only honed the skill. Never in his life had he been the subject of such unrestrained hunger pouring out of a pair of eyes, let alone eyes that were so damned interesting. Dorian lifted one carefully sculpted brow, and the spell was broken. The gaze skittered away from him, flitting back to the Iron Bull before landing once again on their leader. 

“Travers...” Cadash lingered on his name, eyeing him. “Not the first demons you’ve taken down, I think.”

“What gave it away?”

“Most men would be blubbering prayers about now.”

“Would that help, do you think?” Aran asked cautiously, shifted his weight between the balls of his feet. 

“Andraste protects and guides us all.”

“Then She probably has better things to do than listen to me.” Aran cleared his throat, “Ah… anyway, thanks for the timely arrival. I was likely done for.”

“Are you Guild?” the Inquisitor asked.

“What- me? No. Can I have my daggers back now?”

“A demon-slayer, then. Bounty hunter?”

“No, as a matter of fact. You could say I just… landed here. Quite by accident. Where is here, by the way?”

Cadash grinned. “Funny. He’s funny. The Avvar scum got wise and started calling for mercenary recruits? Is that it?”

“...Avvar? This is Avvar territory?” Aran looked around, crossing eyes comically for a moment, “...No. Not to my knowledge, anyway. Do I seem mercenary-” He paused, “Mercenary-ish?” 

Dorian’s lips twitched into an amused smile for an instant before he caught himself.

“You seem like a rogue.” Cadash tapped his nose. “I’ve got a sixth sense for rogues. Most of my family are, after all."

“Funny story- I’m actually an academic, if you can believe that-“

“I can’t.”

Aran closed his mouth, glancing back at the Iron Bull. Why did he keep looking there? “_You’re _ not mercenaries, right?” he asked, carefully. 

Cadash laughed, his braided beard quivering. “Tell me this: have you heard of the Inquisition?”

* * *

So it was that Inquisitor Cadash, Herald of Andraste, recruited yet another follower. The rogue, for all that he called himself an academic, was blissfully ignorant. About most things. He claimed to have hit his head recently and lost a great deal of his memory, though he didn’t fight like an amnesiac. 

“Do you think it’s an act?” Dorian asked quietly when they went to their tents the next evening. They’d spent a day circling abandoned cabins and fighting corpses, looking for a clear path to the Avvars’ reported keep, with Cadash not so subtlely looking for signs of duplicity from his new follower. So far, he hadn’t managed to uncover any.

The Iron Bull frowned, passing a flask to Dorian. “Which part.”

“So you do.” Dorian took the flask and drank gratefully. Wine, glorious wine. “It seemed like he recognized you.”

“Yeah,” the Iron Bull agreed. “But I don’t recognize him.”

“Is it possible that he’s… like you?”

“No one’s like me.” The Iron Bull snorted, “I don’t know every agent of the Qun. Could be. If he is, he’s terrible at it.”

“Would that make him more or less trustworthy?”

“Neither. But if he’s following the Qun, that at least gives us something to work with. Motivation, for one. Right now, self-preservation seems like his main goal, and that makes him a wild card.” The qunari grinned, “He’s got good taste, though, I’ll give him that.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Dorian wrinkled his nose, thinking of the odd hodge-podge of armor, the rat’s nest of startlingly white hair. 

“I mean every second he has to spare, he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you with a spoon. And you know it.”

“Oh, _that_,” Dorian rolled his eyes, irked by the stirring of his heartbeat as he thought of the feeling of those startling eyes on him. The frank, open-hearted, gentleness of the man, so at odds with the vicious blades he wielded. The strange sense of humor. The camaraderie he seemed to have developed almost instantly with Blackwall. That was odd enough on its own. Blackwall wasn’t a cold man, but he wasn’t one to immediately welcome a newcomer either - especially one with so many unexplainables- yet, he’d taken to this foundling like a little brother. Dorian had no filial reaction to the man at all. _ Fuckable_. The word kept popping into his mind, incongruously; Aran Travers smelled of fish, for the Maker’s sake. He was utterly _ not _ Dorian’s type. Too short, for one. Too thin. Mismatched. Solicitous. _ He looks at me like a person, not a monster. Like he sees me and- and adores... _“I’m told I’m wondrous to behold.”

“You are, and he’s not subtle. He’s not noticing the Boss noticing. Or Blackwall.”

“Or you.”

“If he did _that_, I wouldn’t be doing my job. But this means that at least part of what he’s said is true; if he thinks it’s going to fly for him to openly lust after you, then he doesn’t know what’s going on here. He’s either foreign - more foreign than he seems - or he’s about four years behind the times. Could be the amnesia things’s true. Could be he’s a real shitty spy. Secrets, he’s definitely got some. Whatever he is, I’ll know soon enough, or Red will. Those scars and those eyes? There’s a story there, and I’m positive Blackwall has some of the answers.” Bull shrugged. “Whatever he’s hiding, he wants you something fierce. We can use that.”

Dorian bit his tongue on the acid reply that rose in his throat. _ Use me, you mean, _ he wanted to snarl, but Bull wasn’t wrong. Dorian’s position was precarious and he had precious few allies. A lovesick fellow quick with a blade would be an asset, if he could be managed. “He’s desperately unpleasant.” He shifted on the bedroll as thoughts of how such an alliance might play out filtered through his mind. Maybe after a bath or nine, the rogue might be... 

”Think about it.” Bull patted his knee. “Come here and be a good boy before I put you to bed.”

“...You’re not staying?”

“Why- You gonna miss me?” Bull grinned, tugging Dorian forward. He slapped Dorian’s knees apart and started pulling up his robes. 

“Bull-“

“Quiet.” 

Dorian’s breath quickened as the qunari’s rough, meaty hand slid up the inside of his thigh and tugged at his small clothes. 

“‘Wondrous’, are you?” Bull took him in hand, the entirety of his manhood in one massive, meaty palm. “You like the attention.”

“I live for attention generally,” Dorian attempted to quip, but his voice strangled as Bull slapped his thighs further apart, rubbing a rough finger just under his balls.

“So eager,” he said, watching Dorian’s phallus twitch under his ministrations. “Think about how much our new friend would love to get his hands on this.”

“Bull-“ His head fell to the side, resting on the qunari’s shoulder as he exhaled shakily. They’d been together for nearly a year now. He wouldn't have called them lovers, not exactly. Not that he could say he’d ever experienced such a thing as what he imagined that term implied. But Bull made him _ feel_. Weak, sometimes. Strong, others. Protected and wanted, always. His false Arvaarad. No amount of fawning from some unknown hopeful would change that. Especially not one with not enough sense and too much scent. “I want you. Please.” The Iron Bull pressed a thick finger just inside of him, eliciting a hiccup of air. “Yes,” he sighed, “Ah, Maker’s breath-“ Dorian shut his eyes, riding Bull’s hand as a second finger joined the first, and Dorian imagined the qunari’s massive member splitting him open. At Skyhold, there were doors with locks and wards and sound-proofing seals. Here, they could hold a perimeter and create illusory sounds to hide behind, but canvas was still canvas. It was dangerous. The danger made it thrilling, yes, but not thrilling enough to risk everything they’d worked for. 

“That’s it, Baas. Scratch that itch.”

”Nng-“ Dorian gritted his teeth, burying his tightly sealed lips against the Iron Bull’s shoulder, driving himself towards an elusive peak. “Oh-“ It wasn’t enough, but it was something. “Ah- please- please-“ Close. So close. And then it was gone. Dorian blinked repeatedly, head spinning as he was unceremoniously rolled from Bull’s lap to the bedroll. “Excuse me.”

”You’re too loud.” The Iron Bull smirked, “Maybe when you prove you can keep a lid on it, you can earn a finish.” He wiped his hands clean, “Get some shut-eye. Long day tomorrow.”

“Get sleep? With this?” Dorian lifted his brows pointedly, indicating the throbbing tissue Bull had raised. “I can be quiet-”

”I’ll look forward to seeing that. Tomorrow.” Bull paused at the tent’s entrance, “The rule of the road stands. I’ll know if you break it.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Dorian glaring in the dark. He was doing this on purpose. Riling him up and leaving him. He’d managed to keep his mouth shut on at least a dozen occasions before this. The scheming sadist. Muttering curses beneath his breath, he fell back onto the bedroll and tried to ignore the heavy ache between his legs.

The damned rule. It was simple enough. He shifted his hips uselessly. Usually, it was a welcome, interesting challenge. A way to keep his mind from fastening onto ways to destroy their beloved Inquisitor. He had to earn his pleasure, which meant he wasn’t allowed to simply give it to himself.

Perhaps he’d be especially deferential the next day. Keep his head down and say “please” and “thank you”. That would certainly make Cadash happy. He loved seeing mages put in their place. Which made it all the more irritating to do in front of him. Dorian growled under his breath. His thoughts wandered to Bull’s words and Travers’ wanton watchfulness. The rogue wouldn’t have left him like this. He’d likely have begged - yes, begged - for the opportunity to bring him off. Maybe with his mouth. Dorian bit his lip, imagining those bewildering eyes peering up at him all full of gratitude, his smiling mouth full of Dorian’s cock. Two birds with one arrow, perhaps? If the rogue managed to earn his favor... It would serve the Iron Bull right.


	2. patterns in stone

“I’d like to understand. What precisely is your opposition to bathing?” Dorian asked. The eternal drizzle made the blood on the man’s cheek drip through his pale scruff and off the tip of his chin. “Is it religious? Political?”

“The water’s full of corpses, my lord Pavus.”

“Not the water that the Inquisition’s people brought by barrel to the last campsite. You notice that I, for example, am not covered in gore.”

“By ‘people’, you mean ‘slaves’.”

“Servants.” Dorian tutted, “Is that why? Does you being covered in blood and other unmentionables make their plight less difficult? They do the same work regardless.”

“He called them ‘knife-ears’,” Aran said quietly.

“Yes. I heard you bickering about that with the Inquisitor.” So sad, those eyes. The tone of his voice. Heartbroken. Shocked. “Do you think they’ve never heard a slur before?”

“I won’t participate in treating people like animals.”

“So you’ll turn into one yourself?” Maker, what was it about that quiet defiance that made him so attractive, despite everything? Dorian frowned thoughtfully, “Just what is there that you think you can do about it, anyway?”

“I’m working on that.”

“Do inform the rest of us when you’ve resolved that minor alteration to the state of the world, will you?”

Aran ignored him, leaning closer to the pillar on the rise, frowning, “Veilfire- I think this torch is activated by veilfire. Which means there’s a rune or an artifact nearby.”

“Perhaps the rogue is an academic, after all,” Dorian murmured, leaning lazily, posed against his staff, a skull burning incandescently in its wooded grip. He was all kitted in black leather, every blessed statuesque inch of him on display. His voice was black velvet, seductive and lilting. He’d pulled out the stops. A week of enduring those puppy dog gazes - not to mention the repetition of his quietly spoken ‘my lord Pavus’ - was more than enough. Blackwall had been getting in the way; his clear intention to steer the rogue away from further disagreement with the Inquisitor had severely limited Dorian’s opportunities to get him alone. But now, finally, it seemed his plotting was going somewhere. He could see the flush in the rogue’s cheeks. The not so subtle shift of his posture attempting to hide his interest. 

Aran dragged his gaze back to the pillar, the torch, anywhere but the mage. “Care to test my theory? Or just comment?”

“I’m not entirely sure that I can.” Dorian sighed for effect, idly studying the back of his hand. 

“You can light veilfire in your sleep.”

“Of course I‘m _ capable_, but that’s not in question. I can’t cast without permission. Law of the land, and so forth.” He tapped the amulet around his neck. “You must have noticed. Do I really seem the type for gaudy adornment? What sort of head injury did you suffer, anyway?”

“...permission? That’s- You’re… what- leashed?”

“Oh, yes. But they take me for walks.” He gestured absently, “Beautiful, gore-filled walks through grisly, disgusting bogs.”

“That’s… That’s-”

How delightfully horrified he was. “Mages are _ dangerous_. Didn’t you know?”

Aran’s jaw visibly clenched. “Cadash. Fucking-”

“The Inquisitor, at least, sees a use for us. A moderated use, but a use nonetheless. Far better than his Templars might have wished.” 

“So you need… permission. To be what you are.”

Struggling. Dorian could see the muscles jumping at the rogue’s temple. Was it too complex for him to grasp, or was the struggle - Maker have mercy - that he was offended by the notion? “Yes. A task that falls to the Iron Bull,” Dorian sighed. “You haven’t noticed him giving me the go ahead for each of those tiffs we’ve endured?”

“...I thought he was just being encouraging...”

Dorian burst out laughing, “You know- I can’t decide if you’re insufferably naive or minutely adorable.”

“But he left you with me.” Aran tipped his head to the side. The way his gaze shifted to the space at Dorian’s side, muscles around his eyes twitching just so… it was almost as though Dorian could see the gears churning in his mind. “Is it possible - could I release you?”

“Possible, certainly,” a smirk curled Dorian’s lips. “Would you like to try?”

“Yes! I’d have done it before if I’d known.” The eager approach was expected. The outreached hand. Dorian held himself ready to be drawn in, but the rogue’s lithe fingertips landed on the amulet instead. “I… I hereby give you permission to do as you will.” He paused, “Did that work?”

What harm, to break the charade, just for a moment? They were alone, it was true. And Dorian was curious. He was positive that Travers wanted him. Either the fellow was slow, or shy, or was actually distracted by the bloody pillar. Might as well put his mind at ease so he could focus on more important matters. Perhaps… not the cursed torch, though. No reason to have the Inquisitor spot it from afar and come scuttling back. Dorian held out his hand and conjured a small flickering blue flame, holding it aloft and watching the light flex and cast upon the stones around them.

“There,” Aran whispered, circling the pillar and kneeling to trace a pattern on the stone. “It’s…” he swayed, blinking, his brows drawing together. But by the time Dorian came close enough to see the spot, the rune was already fading.

“What did it say?”

“It…” Aran shook his head roughly, a growl rumbling out under his breath. “Fuck. Gods damn it.”

Gods, was it? “What is it?” The rogue was up, stalking towards him, scowling, and Dorian found himself backing away from the darkness that seemed to pour out of him. “Travers... What’s the matter?”

“Why do you put up with this?” His voice was low, furious. 

Dangerous. How had he managed to forget that the gore covering the man was a result of his own decadent, up close, and particularly unfriendly brand of violence? “It’s not a choice-“

“Not for most mages, maybe not,” the rogue snarled, “But you- you’re stronger than most, aren’t you. Better. Smarter. Which means you _ are _ choosing this. I need to know why.”

“Do you? What business is it of yours?”

He hadn’t known the rogue long, but the arrogant twitch of the man’s lips was unexpected. Aran stepped closer, his Fadescored irises thin around the drowning dark of his pupils. “Dorian-“

“You’re very familiar all of a sudden.”

“And?”

“And the others will be back soon.”

“So?”

Dorian smiled slowly, “So. You must know why you’re waiting here with the Tevinter mage, instead of with them. Cadash doesn’t trust you. He doesn’t trust either of us.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t,” Aran’s tenor slipped, deepened. “Maybe none of them should trust me. Especially not with you.”

Infernally fuckable. But this wasn’t the quiet, studious observer they’d known for the last week. His edges were rough. Pupils drowning. No. Something was off. Wrong. “After all the work you’ve put into showing how useful you are to the Inquisition, you’re simply going to throw away your reputation?”

”What reputation?” 

“Point.”

Closer still. “Take it off.”

“My, my,” Dorian’s eyes widened. “In the middle of a swamp in the dark?”

“The amulet. Take it off.”

“No.”

Aran’s eyes narrowed. “Now.”

“No.” Dorian studied those eyes. Changeable. Darkening with storm clouds. 

“Damn it! _ How- _ how can you, of everyone, bear all the bloody, fucking _ ignorance_? Afraid of magic, with a fucking ancient elvhen brand on his hand? Why doesn’t he cut the sodding thing off then? Why not shackle himself instead of collaring you? And treating the elves like galley slaves? Calling them bloody _ knife-ears_? They were here long before any of us. He hasn’t done fuck all about the rifts, not unless he actively stumbles onto them and has to- Driving the Dalish out- What the actual fuck- Conscripting- no- _collaring_ mages- There are people, real people who trust him, in danger and he doesn’t even care- he’s supposed to fucking _ give a shit _ \- Mythal, Mother of Mercy, all of it! I loved this world, I loved it, and now every single thing I hear and see makes me want to- to-“ he slashed his hand through the air, visceral, then his fingers curled into a fist that slowed to press his knuckles into the rock right beside Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian’s back was to the wall. When had that happened? “Everything. Everything is infuriating. Except for you. Only you’re _ letting _ this happen, and I can’t for the life of me understand _ why_.”

‘You don’t know me,’ he wanted to say. ‘You don’t know anything.’ Dorian swallowed. He could feel the other man’s hot, unsteady breath against his cheek. 

“Tell me the truth,” Aran caught his wrist as he reached for his staff. “Please.”

The truth? After that revealing tirade? “You first.”

The rogue hesitated, shook his head roughly. “I can’t.”

“Ha!” Dorian laughed to hide the quick intake of breath. “Well. At least we know where we stand.”

“Give me a reason to stay. Give me a reason why you do.”

He was so close. Too close. Could Aran hear the way his heart was pounding? “I don’t have a choice-”

“You do.”

“-no. Not if I want to make a difference. Not if I want anything to change. I have to be here to see it through.”

“I’d like to see him run through with a lance and turn away the aid of elves and magic _ then_, the pompous twat-fucker- What do you think of that?“ 

“We need him. Despite everything, he’s the only weapon we have against the rifts. And he’s the only thing standing between us and Corypheus.” Dorian hated the words even as he spoke them, but this frenzied fury… “If you truly believe what you say. If you really want to put things right, then this is where you need to be. With us.” He carefully rested his fingers against that clenched jaw, “With me.”

Aran shuddered, blinking hard, and collapsed forward to rest his forehead against the stone. Cheek to cheek. Warm. Wet. His energy shifted, softened. “Void and Deep,” he whispered, “That- I’m sorry. Gods, I don’t- I shouldn’t have-“

Dorian caught his arm as he started to pull away. “Where are you going?”

“The rune- I think it had some kind of empathic expulsion. I- shit, did I scare you?”

“Do I look afraid?” He leaned his head back against the boulder, eyeing the sudden concern in the man’s eyes. The flush in his cheeks as he realized his position: the two of them pinned like butterflies to the stone. Dorian flexed his fingers on Aran’s arm and felt the muscle he’d suspected hid under the armor. Tight. Lean. He pulled, just slightly. “Aran.” The rogue shuddered visibly, swallowing. He rocked his hips forward, holding the man’s gaze. Leather flexed, stretched. “Do I feel afraid?”

“Dorian- sorry, my lord, I- I can't begin to-“

“For the Maker’s sake,” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Must I do everything myself?” He tugged Aran forward and kissed… kissed… What a small, understated word for something so engrossing. What was he even doing? The man was half-mad and smelled of trout and blood and sweat. Thick, cloying, matted sweat. Dorian groaned as Aran surged against him like a wave, pressing him to the stone to grind their hips together. Ah, he was good at this. Strong hands stroking his sides. His back. His arms. And even through the thick leather, Dorian could feel the shape of him, long and curved and hard. “Ah-“ he thrust against that delectable shape, salivating at the thought of it, and allowed the rogue to suck his tongue. Wonderful. Terrible; this had been a terrible idea. Because now he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to peel the armor off the rogue and fuck him until the man lay in a senseless sprawl. More. Maker, he wanted more.

It was the Bull’s fault. The qunari had been teasing him for a week now, stretching him and fingering him only to leave him whimpering and unspent. Thinking. Wanting. It was driving him mad. Mad enough to risk- His breath caught as the rogue’s nimble fingers unbuckled his belt. It wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly. The number of things he wanted those hands to do to him couldn’t possibly occur in the span of time until the others returned. “Stop,” he gasped. “Stop. We can’t.”

Aran stilled, panting against his lips. 

Maker’s breath, not even a safe word. Just one request and the rogue reigned himself in, albeit barely. Dorian studied the man’s face: bruised lips and concerned eyes. He trailed his fingers over Aran’s on his way to put his clothing back to a semblance of respectability. “I’m not done with you,” Dorian murmured.

“No?”

So much hope in one breathless syllable. “Time and place and whatnot.”

“Right.” Aran ducked his head, taking a step away. Not far enough to dislodge Dorian’s hands on him. Not far enough to conceal the careful, tightrope of tension in his lean form. “About before- could we… forget that I said those things?”

“My memory isn’t as fragile as yours. But-“ Dorian chuckled softly. “For now. We can set it to the side for the sake of the more immediate mystery. That rune sent you rather into a frenzy, which means I certainly shouldn’t read it. And even if Cadash would allow such a thing, I wouldn’t open him or the others to that sort of energy. That could be... catastrophic. So. Barring further investigation, do you recall anything specific that might be of use?”

“There’s a journal,” Aran frowned, dabbing at his lower lip with his tongue. “I saw that. It might explain more. I could feel the cramps in my hands from writing. Mostly it was just a feeling of-”

“Anger.”

“Bitterness,” Aran corrected.

“About magic? Elves? The Inquisition?”

Aran ducked his head. “That… was me. I think… I felt the emotions and they just… became mine.”

“You loved the world, hm?” Dorian chucked him under the chin, “I won’t tell.” His fingers lingered, despite himself, rubbing the soiled scruff of the man’s chin. “They need you, you know. If you see what’s wrong and can stand to face it, they need you. Even if they don’t yet realize it.”

“Dorian-“

He tapped Aran’s lips with his thumb to silence him. “I think we should see if we can find that journal. Perhaps there’s an answer in it to what’s happening here in the Mire. We’re here to get to the Avvar, true, but if we can do something about the situation here, it might allow the villagers to return to something approaching their normal lives...” Somewhere along the way, as his mind had wandered, he’d begun tracing those bruised lips, getting lost in the unexpected softness. He carefully withdrew his hand, unable to stop the small smile that curved his lips as Aran tilted off balance to follow. “Time and place, my friend. There will be one. Soon.”

“Soon,” Aran repeated softly.

“Quite soon, if I’ve anything to say about it.”

“Excellent.” 

Dorian chuckled. “You really are an odd one.”

“Am I?”

“There’s something… ephemeral about you,” he murmured. “Do they hurt? Your eyes?” It was as though he’d slapped the rogue, the way Aran looked suddenly away, growing pale. He caught Aran’s hand, “I take it back, I shouldn’t pry. It isn’t my business.”

“It’s fine, it only… reminded me of something. Someone.” Aran pressed his lips together. “No. They don’t hurt.”

“Cadash thinks you spent too much time staring at rifts, trying to understand how to kill the demons.” Dorian squeezed his fingers, “It may behoove you to allow him to continue thinking that. No one will correct him and it’s a far safer story than whatever you actually did to earn a Fademarking.”

“You’re asking me to lie to your Inquisitor?”

“_My_ Inquisitor? The man keeps me effectively shackled, Travers. Lying is among the first things I would ask you to do to him.”

He shook his head, “I don’t understand-“

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re shocked and appalled. You can’t begin to understand the depths of depravity our civilization has fallen to. The world is not all sunshine and unicorns. Horror of horrors.”

Aran frowned at him. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m envious of your rosy expectations,” Dorian murmured. “And sad for you, that you’re being faced with the rather dark grey of reality.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“And yet, it is. And here we are, in it.” He paused. “Could you, do you think?”

“Could I what?”

“Lie to him.”

“About my eyes.”

“Your eyes, yes. And the veilfire I cast. The journal. The fact that you desperately would like to sate yourself on my cock.” Dorian lifted a brow. “That last, you really _ should _ work on. It’s distracting, the way you shout it with your eyes.”

“Is it.”

“Yes.”

Aran swallowed, looking down. “Is that a problem?”

“I am actively thinking, at this moment, of ways to get you all to myself so that you can do what you like with my entirety, and vice versa. But Cadash is suspicious of mages. Suspicious of me, in particular, owing to my particular skillset and my birthplace combined. I would really rather not endure his questioning on how I’ve managed to corrupt his new foundling.”

“You didn’t. I came this way.”

Dorian paused. Blinked. “I don’t believe that would be an acceptable answer in his eyes, unfortunately.”

“...I can try, Dorian.”

“Try very hard.”

Aran nodded. 

“Wonderful.” Dorian squeezed his fingers lightly, kissing his untainted neck, right below the ear. “Now. Let’s look around. With any luck, we can find the journal or at least some non-rune-induced clue to its location before the others return.”


	3. storms that see too clearly

“Well? What do you think?” The Iron Bull hadn’t said a word as Dorian laid out what had occurred. 

“...When you say ‘long’-“

“ _ That’s _ what you want to talk about?” Dorian scowled. “His length?”

The qunari shrugged. “I’d already guessed most of the rest.”

“Had you? It must be so nice knowing more than everyone else.”

“Yep.” 

Maybe just a small fire. A tiny one. Between his horns.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Dorian huffed, looking away.

“You gonna come out and eat, or stay here and sulk?” He could hear the smirk on the Bull’s lips. “Should I send in the new guy? Maybe you can investigate and give me a more accurate measurement.”

Dorian growled under his breath, “Make your jokes.”

“...should I tell you something that surprised me?” The Iron Bull knelt down next to him, his bulk taking up most of the bedroll. “You had a chance to get your rocks off, free of charge, and you passed it up.” 

“It would hardly have been a prudent course of action.”

He poked Dorian’s shoulder. “You like him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You said he would be useful and I agree with you, so I took your advice.”

“Nah. You like him. I knew you’d get around to fucking him eventually-“

“Oh, would I?”

“-but I didn’t expect you to like him.”

“Your high opinion of me is overwhelming.”

“It changes things. And. It’ll make it harder, if he turns out to be shadier than I think.” 

Dorian frowned. “Have you learned something?”

“For a seemingly open book, he’s keeping more to the chest than he should be able to.” The Iron Bull frowned towards the tent’s entrance. “So he’s a better liar than he seems. That makes me nervous; I don’t like being nervous.” He rested a hand on Dorian’s shoulder; the weight was familiar. Warm. Anchoring. “He’s building alliances in a backwards way. Cadash likes him, and the guy’s arguing with him more than half the time. Blackwall’s been protecting him before we knew his name, and I couldn’t pry two words out of him on why. I don’t know what he wants, beyond you.”

“Do you have to know everyone’s secrets?”

“Yes.” The Iron Bull met his gaze steadily. “And since we only know one way to lean on him…”

“You want me to find out.” 

“Yep.”

Dorian eyed the qunari. “It makes me feel like bait.”

“You  _ are _ bait. But-” Hot breath on his ear, rushing down his collar. The flex of muscle like molten iron against him. “-you like being eaten. Don’t you. Baas.” 

Dorian shivered, leaning his head to the side to welcome questing, calloused lips and sharp teeth along the length of his throat. He did. Maker help him. 

* * *

“An’ how’s she cuttin’?”

“Fuckin’ twisted, mate.”

“She’ll come along.”

“Smarter to leg it.”

“Aye… Sketch yourself, pup.”

“You’re buckled.”

Dorian flicked a glance towards the northerners. They’d been speaking for almost half an hour straight now, laid out on top of the boulder to his left, eyeing the road ahead… and he had no idea what they were talking about.

“Nae,” Blackwall murmured in answer.

“Aye, y’are.”

“Nae, tie it down.” The Warden grunted, “Spy the hazards.”

“Well, for clear, but the beard won’t give.”

“Leave it at mine.”

“Sure, an’ have a nice lap, like.”

“I’ll do that,” Blackwall chuckled. “Lad,” he sighed. “Dinnae be the dafter.”

“Ta, but fleece-like,” Aran huffed, watching the Warden climb down. When Blackwall was out of view, Aran turned back to watching the corpses mill about ahead without a glance in his direction. 

Finally. They were alone again, for the first time in days. It felt like weeks of torment, only catching glimpses of the man on his way past the campfire. Cadash had been keeping the new rogue busy - scouting, hunting, clearing the undead one by one. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was slinking off with Blackwall or holing up in his tent on his own. “Southern Common is my second language,” Dorian told him, “so forgive my curiosity, but… what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You and Blackwall just now.”

“Marchtongue.” As if that explained anything. Aran nodded towards the keep in the distance. “There’s no farms. The keep’s backed up to a mountain. Maybe they’ve got food stores drilled into the stone, but the better bet is that the Avvar have a way in and out of there that isn’t trekking through a thousand corpses.” 

“Ah.”

“Better use of our resources to wait and see how they manage that.”

“You know each other from before the rifts. Is that it?”

Now the rogue glanced from the road ahead. “It's not that simple.”

“Excellent. Simple is dreadfully dull.” Dorian smiled winningly and was rewarded with a soft snort of a chuckle, but no other comment. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a Warden,” he ventured.

“You’d have been wrong if you had.”

“So he tried to recruit you at some point, then?”

Aran sighed, turning to his side, “Why?”

“Hm?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I’m curious about you. I think that’s fair, given…”

The rogue lifted a brow. “Given what?”

Dorian blinked. “I thought we had reached an understanding, I suppose.”

“About?”

He was being willfully obtuse. Dorian could see it in his gaze, and in the way he held himself. True, they hadn’t had an opportunity to further things in the days since their encounter at the pillar, but it hadn’t occurred to him that time - especially such a small, violence-filled measure of it - might extinguish the rogue’s interest. No. If it had, Dorian would have noticed. Hells, Bull would have noticed and said something. Dorian shifted slightly closer and noted the equal shift of the rogue away from him. Fascinating. “...Misdirection.”

Aran’s gaze slipped away again, “Seamus told me I should leave you be.”

Dorian coughed, “Pardon me?” So he and Blackwall were on a first name basis, were they? Aran only stared at him, waiting. “As if it’s any of his- So, now you care about taboos? Is that it?” Dorian scowled, “Less than a week ago, you were all about changing the world, but now because I’m a filthy mage, you-“

“That’s not  _ why- _ ”

What was this meddling racing of his heart? “Then what-“ Why was his throat so tight? His voice- was it... quivering? Like a leaf in a storm. How embarrassing. “What is the issue?”

“He told me what Saarebas means.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “That’s common knowledge. And we’ve established, I think, that mages are dangerous, wicked folk.”

“And Arvaarad.”

“Yes, yes. So what?”

“So. I don’t poach.”

Dorian blinked rapidly. “I’m… sorry?” 

“You’re with the Iron Bull. And I don’t poach.” Aran bit his lip, looking away. “That’s all there is to it.”

“It bloody well isn’t.” Dorian leaned closer, lowering his voice, “What exactly did your good friend the Warden tell you? There’s nothing between us- nothing past the bondage of a subservient to his better-“ he began the same lines, the same cover story. Had they slipped somehow? Had Blackwall seen through the carefully constructed facade? Had Aran with his outsider’s eyes somehow pierced the truth that they’d carefully concealed? And if he had, what would he do about it? He’d have them - both the Iron Bull and himself - at a complete disadvantage moving forward. They were supposed to be using him, not the other way around. “You know nothing. And Blackwall has no idea what it means to be chained in this way. Just because it isn’t the common technique-“

“Dorian,” Aran sighed. “You don’t have to lie to me,” he looked down, frowning. “ _ Precor te, mihi crede. Non ludo ludere. Quia non sum mentitus sum vobis, et ego servabo te secretum. _ [1]”

Dorian started at the sudden rush of his homeland’s language, churned out by a soft southern brogue. At the words, themselves. “ _ What _ ?”

He shrugged. “The more I learn about this place- The more I see- I can’t even bloody imagine what it’s like for, Void and Deep, you of all people. But you’ve got that,“ he nodded to the amulet, “and him. You’re safe.”

Dorian opened his mouth and shut it again. 

“Seamus thinks it’s pure leash and collar. I thought so too, at first, but the more I watched… I’m not going to correct him.” Aran frowned, “Though you’d be surprised to learn how much he’s on your side.”

“Ch!” Dorian uttered the sound through his nose like a sneeze.

“I won't say anything.” Aran smiled sadly, “I just wish I’d realized sooner; I’d have kept to myself.”

‘But I don’t want you to!’ He wanted to shout. Like a child. Maker, it was true. The idea of losing this man’s attention was painful. Dorian swallowed. Why was his throat suddenly so dry? “You speak Tevene.”

“I told you-“

“-you’re an academic.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know Qunlat.”

“I never had means or reason to learn. The Starkhaven and Ostwick libraries didn’t have much in the way of Qunari writing. The masters were a bit biased against them, I think, given all the incursions.” Aran bit his lip, “Anyway, the Inquisitor wants to launch a full-out attack tomorrow, but if you can convince Bull to explain that waiting would be a better tactic-“

“Aran-”

“Please.” The rogue ducked his matted, moonlit head in the drizzle. Damaged and damp. “Can you not?”

“Not what?”

“Say that.”

“I like your given name.” Dorian watched him, “It’s real. Travers,” he shook his head, “I think is not.”

Aran sighed, resting his chin on the stone. “Call me something else, then. Just not that.”

“Is your name from my lips so terrible?” Dorian reached across the distance between them, his fingers trailing a dewed droplet down the rogue’s temple. Those ineffable eyes closed, and he was just a man. A man with scars and tension. He traced the line of Aran’s jaw, feeling the bristle of the new week’s growth on his cheek. Silk-white, like his hair, but with glints of gold. His breath came in soft bursts against Dorian’s fingers. “Aran,” he murmured. Had he thought this man wasn’t beautiful? Had he been blind? Tension etched through every infinitesimal muscle in his face. An intoxicating disaster. “Aran,” he whispered, softer, again. “You should kiss me.” 

“I really shouldn’t.”

He thumbed that stubborn chin. “You want to.”

“I can’t. I can’t risk- Things are as they are here. I don’t want to-“

Dorian leaned closer, “You think you know me so well. The way you talk about me- as though you can see, truly see. Am I a rabbit to be poached?” Ah, there were those eyes. Churning, fade-touched storms. “You should. Kiss me. Any time n-” 

Like being hunted. Like being eaten alive. 

Dorian nearly laughed with relief as he was twisted onto his back, the other man lunging over him like a serpent. He cupped the scruffy, gaunt jaw and silently rejoiced. He returned every hungry kiss, tasting the sour and pepper of dried meat and worry on Aran’s tongue. He felt as electric as the storm above them and hard as the boulder beneath. He ground his hips against Aran’s. Walls and locking door. That was all he needed. He could have this man now, if he was reckless. Find a cabin free of the undead and take that length of curved, eager flesh into himself. The thought of it made him groan deeper into the kiss, wrestling Aran onto his back. He smirked, sharing gasping breaths, “Better?”

“Not by a long shot,” Aran whispered, nipping at his lips. “Dorian- gods-“

“You want me,” Dorian exhaled against his cheek. “Say it.”

“I do want you, but-“

“No. Just that. Again.”

Aran’s eyes rolled back as Dorian took a firm grip of him, palming him through his leather. “I want you.”

“Good.” 

“I want you.”

“Very good,” Dorian kissed the side of his mouth. “Let me worry about me. You just keep thinking with this,” he squeezed. “Because I have plans for you. And I don’t like my plans disrupted. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Aran sighed, “Yes. Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I pray that you believe me. I’m not playing the Game. I have not lied to you. I will keep your secret.


	4. gifts of leather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit m/m and BDSM. Enjoy!
> 
> 12/30/19: Per request, altered text to 3rd person POV for continuity’s sake. Let me know if I missed anything. :)

Rousting the Avvars was fairly straight forward, once Aran and the Iron Bull located their hidden gate between two craggy hills. From that point on, it was a simple matter of dispatching the unsuspecting tribesmen on our way to their so-called ‘throne room’. Truly, Dorian felt a little sorry for the chieftain’s son; his dream to destroy the Inquisitor wasn’t entirely foreign. It just so happened that Dorian knew what he did not: the Inquisitor - bastard that he was - was gifted by some infernal luck. Not to mention, a willingness to play dirty. 

So it was that on the day of their ingress, Inquisitor Cadash was collecting all the relics and remnants from the Avvars’ fortress, while the Grey Warden and questionable rogue went to locate and free the missing Inquisition soldiers, and the Avvar clan’s future heir lay cooling in a puddle of his own blood.

“How are things coming along?” the Iron Bull asked from Dorian’s side. They had been tasked with maintaining the exits should additional Avvars show up, or corpses manage to find the route they’d taken. 

“Much better now that we’ll be able to get back to civilization. Or what passes for such in these parts, anyway.” 

“We need a handle on him before we get back to Skyhold.”

“I know. He’ll be handled.” Dorian lifted a brow. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust him.” 

The Iron Bull hadn’t taken the knowledge of Aran’s insights into their relationship terribly well and Dorian couldn’t really argue with his instincts. Those instincts had served them well, and Dorian didn’t like being outplayed any more than the qunari. What the Iron Bull and he were doing was dangerous in one part and illegal in the other. Having a stranger who could see through their double act was not something they would have risked under normal circumstances, but these weren’t normal circumstances. It was a matter of giving the Iron Bull the evidence to see what Dorian intuited: Aran was useful and trustworthy. He only prayed his intuition was correct and not the mere product of wanting the fellow so damned much.

When the Inquisitor suggested finding a tavern - or more accurately, an inn - the sigh of relief from them all was palpable. 

Walls and a door. Dorian couldn’t stop himself from smiling at the promise of what those two precious resources would mean; he would finally get a leg up over their roguish problem - literally and figuratively. And he could not wait to get a night’s sleep inside. Inns on crossroads were always well-stocked. The thought of a down bed was enough to make him drool. 

Of course, he wasn’t technically allowed in the premises proper, but that was an easy enough solution. It meant rising before daybreak to secret himself back into the shed - or barn or wherever they chose to put him - and reallocating whatever constraints they’d elected to keep him there, but that was old hat by now. 

So while the Inquisitor led his rapturous, newly freed entourage to toasts in the inn, the Iron Bull and Dorian unloaded the party’s gear into the lovely storage shed he would be ‘locked away in’, then continued over to the stables to care for the horses.

“I got you something,” the Iron Bull rumbled as Dorian finished prestidigitating a rudimentary cleaning spell on them both. The horses had been brushed and fed. There was a secondary stable for carts and carriages, and most of the tavern’s clientele housed their mounts there, or tied them out front of the building. The Inquisitor’s horseflesh was given priority stabling here, with the innkeep’s mounts. Perks of being loved and feared.

“Ooh, what is it? Orlesian silk? A shiny new opal?” Dorian beamed when the qunari unveiled a bottle of Dusty Shear from his pack. “You are a treasure,” he cooed.

“And something else.”

Dorian squinted at him, suddenly suspicious. “Why?”

“You’ve been behaving.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “What’s the other thing?”

“You’ll see for yourself.” The Iron Bull pointed up to the loft. “Up there.” 

“My gift requires physical labor,” he griped with a sigh, but dutifully hoisted himself up the ladder. “I hope you know that I am not going to sleep out here, no matter what you’ve done.”

The loft was clear for the most part, but for a table and chairs and a pile of cloth-covered rubble near the far end. He tested one of the chairs to find it reasonably dirt free and took a seat, curious. The warrior had gone ahead to scout and locate a suitable place for them to rest, but he’d clearly taken his time here. Things the Iron Bull took his time with tended towards the horrifying and delightful. 

“You’re feeling playful,” Dorian commented as the Iron Bull joined him in the loft.

He grinned. “The rules of the road are as hard on me as they are you.” He placed the bottle on the table. “Don’t you want to play a game?”

The mage tucked his head to the side, considering. Times like these, when his eye was alight with mischief, Dorian felt the space between them that had to be there by necessity melt away. They were two sides of the same degenerate coin. He pursed his lips, “Do I get to drink first?”

“Some.”

He looked longingly at the bottle. It had been weeks since he’d had anything approaching a reasonable vintage. Still… “What exactly is your proposition?”

Bull opened his pack and withdrew a narrow wooden box, placing it beside the bottle. 

“How much more is in that bag of tricks?” Dorian asked, opening the box. He glanced up, then back again. The olisbos was longer than they’d used before, coated in light leather. “Unwieldy, I’d say.”

“Go on, pick it up.”

The leather was soft and smooth under my fingers, but more interestingly, as he lifted it from the box, he found that - rather than the stiff core of chalk or wood that he’d expected - the thing flexed. Not overmuch, but still. Dorian gave it an amused wag, “Clever.” He thumbed the metal pin at the broad end of the device. “Attachment?”

The qunari nodded to the pile of cloth at the end of the loft. “I’ll pour.”

Dorian left him to uncork the bottle and tugged the cloth free, studying the saddle. There were divets at regular intervals down the centerline of the saddle, perfectly suited to incorporate the olisbos’ pin. “Bull…” Dorian returned to his seat, accepting the offered glass. “What do you want?”

“Pretty obvious.”

“...yes. This is a fascinating gift, and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s the timing that interests me.” He waited, studying his lover. “As tonight is my first opportunity to safely handle our mutual concern,” he added.

“Just making sure you remember where your bread’s buttered.”

“As if I could forget.” He reached out to cover the qunari’s massive hand with his own. “This was your idea.”

The Iron Bull shifted on his chair, eliciting a pained whine from the wood. “Guess I thought he’d be like everyone else. Doesn’t change what we need. Or what you want. Just…”

“Complicates things?”

“Right. So. Simple game. Think of it like eating a good meal before you get dessert.”

Dorian sipped from the glass, sighing with pleasure as the wine coated his tongue. “What are the rules to this ‘simple game’?”

“You bring yourself off, when I say, without touching your cock.”

“_Very _ simple game,” he murmured. 

The Iron Bull grinned. 

“All the other parameters remain the same?” 

“Pretty much.”

“How are you planning to sneak the saddle inside?”

“Oh… I’m not.” He kicked his heels out comfortably. “You’ll do it here.”

Dorian peered at him over the rim of his glass. “You want me to fuck myself on a saddle in a barn.”

“Yeah.”

“Above our mounts.”

He looked at Dorian with a sudden malevolent reverence. “Oh, yeah.”

“You’re a barbarian.” The Tevinter couldn’t help glancing back to the saddle. It was perched atop a bench that he’d noted had a piston mechanism built in. The Iron Bull could very well throw one of his excruciating in the moment challenges in and ask Dorian to hold a squat while he operated the thing against him. Into him. Humiliating. He touched his tongue to his palate, enjoying the layers of the Shear. Delicious. “Can we establish that I _will_ need to be able to function after this?”

“Warm-up only.”

Dorian hummed softly. “...very well.”

“Good. Strip.”

The mage lifted his unfinished glass. “Still drinking.”

“Not stopping you.” He rooted in the pack and emerged with a familiar little bottle of shimmering milky liquid, uncapping the tiny cork.

The delicate scent of honey and musk touched Dorian’s nose and he shifted in his seat, his cock twitching awake like a well-trained dog. The Iron Bull’s gaze speared him, warmed him, absorbed him knowingly.

“Strip,” Bull said again, darker, and Dorian knew he wasn’t going to ask again. They had established the boundaries of the game and Dorian had accepted. They had begun.

With a beleaguered sigh, Dorian rose from his chair and took his time unbuckling and unlacing the layers of his robe. For all that Bull had taken the time and energy to clean the place before they’d arrived, it was still a barn. He couldn’t just throw his things on the floor. He fluffed each layer carefully, hanging them on slightly bent nails sticking out from the low rafters to the side. By the time he returned to the table and the Iron Bull and - _let’s not forget -_ the wine, Dorian’s phallus was demonstrating its interest in the proceedings without restriction. He picked up his glass, swirled, and sipped. 

It really was a pleasant vintage. 

Bull was taking his inspection, as per usual, and Dorian endured the excruciating study, his hips shifting traitorously. “Good enough. Here.” He slipped the amulet off over Dorian’s head, detaching the garish pendant from the chain and attaching it to the leather collar they used for these occasions instead. Dorian bent his head in a visage of dutiful acceptance, but the truth was… he enjoyed the feel of that worn leather slipping around his neck, tightening as it was buckled into place. They’d used the same one from the beginning and there was something agonizingly tender about the warmth of it, not unlike an embrace. 

The Iron Bull touched Dorian’s shoulder, bringing him back. Pleased as punch, he was. 

“Lean over.” He patted the tabletop and Dorian did as he was told, folding over to rest his forearms on the table. “You can finish your glass,” the qunari trailed his fingers down Dorian’s bare back, then smoothed his wide palm over the curve of his ass possessively, making Dorian think - shivering - of tight squeezes and rigorous, aching beatings. “You look nice.” He gave a nice meaty handful of his ass a thoughtful squeeze. “I think we might need to play the footstool game again when we get back to Skyhold.”

_Ah, Maker, the footstool game_. Dorian tried to focus on the wine.

The Iron Bull’s fingers were warm and damp with the lubricant when they slid down the cleft of his ass. He squeezed the globe of one cheek as he ran his fingers past the entrance again. Dorian shifted his hips.

“A little early to break the rules, Kadan.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Only two days since I got my fingers up in your tight little hole,” he petted the rosebud between the mage’s cheeks with his thumb. Pressure, but not enough. “I fucked you with them good that last time, too. The way you rode my hand…” 

Dorian swallowed a moan.

“Finish your wine.” He took hold of Dorian’s hips, adjusting the man so that his legs were further apart, his ass lifted. As he lifted the glass for a sip, the Iron Bull pressed one thick digit against his entrance, pulsing it there. “Good stuff, huh?”

“Yes.” With each sip, he pulsed again, a little deeper each time, until the glass was empty and Dorian was fighting not to squirm back onto his finger like a teenager. 

“All done?”

“Yes.” 

The Iron Bull took the empty glass and set it on the chair to the side. Dorian felt a dribble of the lubricant slide over his finger into his entrance, then his head fell forward as the Bull began to work it in and out, slowly spreading him open. Nights that the Iron Bull took him himself, this process could last for hours. He liked the mage to be ready, so ready his head was about to explode, so that he could take and take and take. The slap was mild, barely warming his skin, but it brought him back to the moment. 

“Yes?”

“Open up.”

Evidently, Dorian had made him repeat himself. He smirked. _Oops. _He spread his legs wider, bending deeper, and the qunari carefully worked a second brutishly broad finger inside. More lubricant. Dorian groaned. 

“Do you need your gag?”

“Don’t-“ He craned his neck to look back at the qunari, panting. “It’s very good, Bull. Don’t stop. Please.”

He waited. 

Dorian sighed, hanging his head. “Yes, I probably will need it.” He cursed himself silently as the Bull’s fingers left him feeling empty. The smell of the lubricant and his ass was dizzying on Bull’s fingers as he set the leather ball between Dorian’s teeth and nudged it back against his tongue. Dorian gave an experimental muffled moan as the strap was buckled around the back of his head. 

The Iron Bull nodded his approval. “Good enough. The horses will cover a lot and we’re not too close to anyone. Maintain as well as you can.”

Dorian accepted the egotistical smirk that was leveled at him as the Iron Bull returned to his task. With the gag in place, he could moan to his heart’s content and he did. If he couldn’t ride Bull’s fingers, he could at least enjoy them thoroughly. He allowed himself to drift in the pleasure of attention, holding himself still for the Iron Bull to stretch him, test him, scissor him open. He wasn’t going to give Dorian what he wanted. Not yet. That wasn’t the game. This was only a very pleasant appetizer to a promised meal.

His hand cupping Dorian’s tight, heavy balls let the mage know that he’d been judged ready enough for the next step. Dorian stood up straight, his cock standing proudly at attention, and was rewarded with a light tug on his sack. “Let’s try out your present. You ready?”

The question was perfunctory. If Dorian hadn’t been ready to his estimation, he wouldn’t have been asked. Dorian nodded again, following him over to the saddle. He secured the olisbos into one of the attachment rings and tested it to make certain it would hold. “This should be a good spot to start with. You can touch anything above your waist. Let me know if you need more lube. Let me know if it’s too much or you need to change something.”

Dorian swallowed, eyeing the contraption. Now that he was about to sit on it, the leather phallus seemed more challenging. He’d felt it give; it was firm, but flexible. It wouldn’t be like rutting on a post (and he’d done that a couple of times in his youth out of desperation). But it was still… an it. And it was longer than the other objects they’d used. He clamped his teeth on the leather ball in his mouth, shivering as the Iron Bull dripped a generous helping of the lubricant onto the narrow tip of the leather phallus. 

Challenging, but tempting. 

He walked over the low bench and lowered himself, first to the seat ahead of the olisbos, scooting back to feel it press against his rump. The lubricant warmed the leather as it saturated it, making it feel almost real. He rubbed back against it, watching the Iron Bull. 

“Need help?”

Dorian hesitated, but only for a moment. Help meant feeling the Iron Bull’s hands working the thing into him and that was too good an offer to pass up. Bull’s breath was warm against his arm as he adjusted the position of Dorian’s hips, fitting the head of the leather phallus to his prepared entrance. 

“Good?”

Dorian held his gaze. It wasn’t too thick, but he knew that if he just let himself sink down on it, it would be too much. He shifted his hips carefully, gripping the saddle horn for balance. Not bad. He lifted up and rolled his hips down again. _Not bad. No. Good._ _So good..._

The Iron Bull stroked the back of his head once before he backed away. “Ride it.” 

Dorian lowered himself further, carefully. Each time it felt like it might be too much, too deep, he rose up again. The edges of the saddle were easier to grip than the horn. He groaned, feeling the olisbos press, press, press... Bull had opened the first and second rings thoroughly, but he’d left the rest of the path largely untouched, so the olisbos was doing its own work there. Forging a way up, inside, to touch Dorian where only Bull and toys and a few dozen cocks had been before. 

“How’s that?”

He nodded, concentrating on the feeling on his upper reaches expanding. 

“Good?”

He nodded again, squeezing the shaft inside of himself experimentally. Good was an understatement. 

“Touch yourself.”

That was a tall order. He was precariously balanced over the bench and keeping his grip on the saddle was one of the only ways he could maintain control of the pace and angle of the olisbos. Dorian glanced at the Bull, tightening his core and thighs for balance, and brought his fingers to his stomach. It would be easy, too easy, to ‘slip’ and graze the bobbing head of his cock, but that would end the fun. He flattened his hand over his abdomen and stroked upwards, focusing on the feel of his own muscles; planes and angles he’d taken care to perfect over the years.

Dorian moaned around the gag, brushing the ring in each nipple with his fingertips. His nerves danced, muscles tightening to squeeze the olisbos tighter. He breathed low and slow to relax and work the object deeper, thrust by thrust. _Deep- Maker, it was deep now,_ and the feeling of being filled as he toyed with the sensitive piercings on his chest was making him greedy. Dorian drove himself down, head falling back on a shocked groan as he found himself fully seated on the leather phallus, it’s head pressing hard into his guts. 

_Oh, to sit here, just like this, pierced through, and stroke my raging hard on_. But that wasn’t allowed. Not right now.

Dorian played with his nipples a while longer, working himself back up to a driving need as he shifted, changing the subtle angles of the object inside to push and shove against all those sparkling points.

“Ride it,” the Iron Bull’s gruff voice penetrated his pleasure. “Don’t just sit on it.”

_What in the Void does he think that I’m doing?_ Dorian blinked, demonstrating, and the Iron Bull shook his head. Oh, he wanted a show. Dorian lifted himself up, almost all the way off of it, then pushed inexorably back down until he was seated fully on the saddle again. It was still tight, but the path was clear. He shortened his stroke and tried again. Having it fully inside of him felt so wickedly good, he wanted to linger there each time, but the denial of that pleasure was its own kind of fun. 

“Better.”

The Iron Bull’s big hand stroked the back of Dorian’s neck as he increased the tempo, thrusting onto the leather cock with more and more eager abandon. He pinched his nipples, releasing his head back into Bull’s grip, and let go his other hand from the saddle to grip the qunari’s muscular forearm. 

“That’s it,” Bull encouraged.

Dorian could smell the lube on his hands and the so familiar thick scent of his qunari’s beautiful cock getting hard. He turned his head, at eye level with Bull’s groin, and sure enough he was tenting the cloth right next to his face. Dorian leaned against it, feeling the frankly indecently large cock twitch against his cheek. The gag allowed him the freedom to groan and shout to his heart’s content, but Dorian made the decision right then that he would do without it the next time they did this. He wanted that cock in his mouth. Dorian nuzzled it, losing himself in scent and sensation, and groaned his joy as the Iron Bull freed his massive member. The head of his dick was engorged and slick; he tapped it against Dorian’s face, dripping his precum onto spread lips. 

“Every decision has consequences,” he told Dorian gently. 

Dorian was salivating, moaning, shuddering as he rigorously impaled himself on the olisbos. He could almost taste it, Bull’s scent and the scent of the lubrucant were driving him into a frenzy. He watched Bull stroke himself right next to his face, _the tease_, and tore his gaze to the qunari’s face to watch him surrender to his own pleasure a mere moment before he poured his load onto Dorian’s bare chest. Dorian whined, pitifully.

“Come.”

Dorian screamed in triumph, his own pleasure echoing back on his ears and eking out the edges of the gag. They grasped each other tightly as Dorian rode the last staggering inches of his journey.   
  
Dorian sagged, sticky and sated, and the Iron Bull sank to his knees at his side, arms wrapping around the smaller man’s torso. His breath feathered the small hairs at the back of Dorian’s neck; hot, but even. His Arvaarad was never out of control, not even when he seemed that way. Dorian rested his chin between his horns as he liked, panting his satisfaction in short warm bursts atop his head.

* * *

“Dorian?” They heard his name being called outside the barn in one of Aran’s more righteous tones. “Dorian!”

“Think he just found out about Cadash’s indoor guests policy?” Bull grinned against Dorian’s shoulder. 

“Likely,” Dorian murmured lazily.

Bull had unbuckled the gag and cradled the mage in his lap, wiping him down like a prized stallion after a race. Dorian loved this time, the way he was held and inspected so carefully. He loved what came at the end of it, too. “Perfect,” Bull decided quietly and Dorian preened on the inside. He kissed the mage on the cheek, “We could make him wait a little longer.”

“I think the poor man might lose his mind.” They could hear Blackwall scouring Aran outside, but the words were distant and thickened with brogues. 

“And you?”

Dorian cupped the Bull’s cheek; he’d watched him shave this morning with a dagger the size of a man’s forearm, yet he never cut himself. He wanted a serious answer. “I would do this for us, regardless of how I felt. That’s true. But you were right,” Dorian hated those words. They always gave the Bull such ego. “I do like him. He’s tempestuous and eager, but sweet, too. I’ve been looking forward to this almost since I met him. Does it bother you?”

The Iron Bull nudged the corner of his moustache with his thumb, “I can see you’re safe in his hands. That’s good enough for me.” He kissed him lightly, “For now.”

“That’s fair.”

“Should we tie you up in a bow for him? Make the wait worth it?” 

Dorian smiled. There was his wonderful, generous Bull. “I think that would be a very nice gesture.”


	5. tender knots and bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: Explicit m/m begins after the /@@/ marking.

Dorian poured another glass of his gift as the Iron Bull went to fetch the rogue. There had been the matter of finding the right lighting, the right knots, the right presentation generally. Inviting, not whorish. 

What was taking them so long? 

He glanced at himself in the mirror, adjusted the collar around his neck, perfected the curve of his moustache, triple checked every detail that he could think of… then settled back into his place just out of sight when he heard the Iron Bull’s steps outside. His heart was thrumming, blood practically singing through his veins in anticipation. 

The door cracked open and Aran stepped through, looking like he was about two strums away from keeling over and the only thing keeping him upright was the firm hand that the Iron Bull had on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what you think you heard,” Aran scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know anyone here who could have said anything about me.”

“Pretty suspicious, I’d say.” The Iron Bull nudged the rogue ahead into the room, then settled into a sturdy lean against the door, arms crossed. “Nobody knows you? No one goes through life without at least some kind of connection. Either you’re a foreign conspirator, a spy, or a somniari.”

“...which of those would be the best option, do you think?” Aran asked lightly after a brief, unsteady pause.

“The truth.”

“The truth is less believable. A friend of mine always said telling a story was a better bet.”

“Since you’re nosing around after my Saarebaas, let’s try the truth anyway.”

Aran squinted, “I was given to understand that wasn’t a problem.”

“Were you?” The Iron Bull remained inscrutable. “By whom?”

“By Dorian?”

The Iron Bull snorted. 

“I don’t know what that means.” Aran tilted his head, “If it’s a problem-“

“It means: start talking.”

“...I’m not a mage.”

“No shit.” The Iron Bull rolled his eyes. “So: spy or conspirator?”

“Neither. I swear,” Aran held up his hands in innocence. 

“How do you know Blackwall?”

“I don’t. He knows me. I don’t know how. I don’t know how he could. I’ve never been here before.” The rogue sighed, “You’ve got an effect on people. It’s difficult to…”

The Iron Bull smiled. “Yeah?”

“I’m telling you the truth.” Aran shifted uncomfortably, “I’d have to be crazy to do anything else. Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Jury’s out.”

“Great. Let me know what you decide. Preferably with words and not your axe.” Aran huffed, his shoulders dropping, almost laughing, “You’ve always been hard to read.”

“Have I? Since when?”

“Not- nevermind. Just… ask and I’ll tell you what I can.”

“You got plans to kill the Inquisitor?”

“Actual plans or wishful thinking ones?” The rogue ducked his head, “Ah, no, I don’t, especially. I don’t like his views or his methods or _ him _, overmuch. Less and less by the minute, really, but I try not to resolve all my differences with a blade if I can help it. ‘If’ being the operative word. Damn, sorry, I make jokes when I’m nervous.” 

“You nervous, _ bas _?”

“You’re two heads taller than me and you could barehand rip me in two. Yes, I’m nervous.” 

“Good.” The Iron Bull stood from the door, stretching his shoulders in a way that flexed every muscle in his torso. 

_ Show off, _Dorian thought.

Aran shuddered in his shadow, “Yeah, just… you’re not… telling Cadash that last part, are you?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“Blackwall’s a good man. I don’t want him to get hurt because of me.”

“He makes his own choices.” The Iron Bull was herding him backwards and Aran allowed it, gauging Bull’s movements cautiously. “What do you think?” he asked succinctly, glancing past Aran to find Dorian hidden in the shadows.

“He sounded dreadfully earnest,” Dorian murmured and felt a shiver of glee as Aran literally jumped in surprise. But he was caught between them; the Iron Bull filled the room between him and the door and the only other option was the corner where Dorian sat, comfortably reclining on the overstuffed chaise.

“He wasn’t lying. I'm sure of that,” Bull muttered. “Doesn’t mean he was telling the truth.”

Dorian nodded on a sigh. “He doesn’t seem like Venatori, but he may well be connected to them in some way…”

“I’m not fucking Venatori.”

Dorian shivered at the rough offense in the rogue’s voice. 

And knew The Iron Bull had seen it when he looked at Dorian with a smirk. “I believe the guy.”

“You do?” All part of the scene, the script, their plan to make the rogue not only theirs in body, but mind as well. Let him know he was suspected. Let him know they were choosing to give him some rope. See what he would do with it. 

“Yeah.” He ruffled the back of Aran’s wild white hair, eliciting an indignant squeak, “I like him.”

That was... unexpected and new. Dorian cleared his throat, “You do?” 

“Direct. Quick. Takes direction. All very likable things.”

Dorian began to have a fluttering, nervous feeling in his stomach. This was not in the script they’d agreed to. This was The Iron Bull telling him something... something they would doubtless discuss at a later date. “I see.”

“You were right,” the Iron Bull continued with an affirming nod. “He seems like a good biddable sort.”

“That’s not what I said at all.”

“Did you see the way he _ flinched_?” Bull chuckled deeply, “Okay. Your wards all set, Kadan?”

Dorian inclined his head. “Of course.”

The Iron Bill hooked a massive arm around the rogue’s narrow shoulders, “He says ‘katoh’, you back off. You don’t, I’ll hear about it. You don’t want me to hear that. Got it?”

“What?” Aran blinked hard.

“Say, ‘Yes, The Iron Bull’.”

“Yes, The Iron Bull?”

“Then I’m off. You two have a good time.”

* * *

@@

* * *

  
“What?” Aran watched the qunari swagger to the door and out, then turned back to Dorian. “What just happened?”

The door closed. Latched. 

“...Dorian?” 

“Another step forward. And to the left.” 

Aran frowned, but gingerly did as he was told. “...why?”

“The light is better.” Dorian brushed his fingers up his chest and nudged his robe off his shoulder, hooking one knee over the arm of the low back of the chaise. As the rogue’s breath stuttered to a standstill, Dorian peeled the fur-lined robe open, letting it fall asunder around him. He was utterly nude, completely at ease, with thick, soft black rope looped and knotted in diamond patterns from his calves to his wrists. In the warm glow of the candles that Dorian gradually increased with a flick of his fingers, the golden rings piercing his nipples and the head of his fully erect cock gleamed. The base of his cock was wound in thinner black rope, binding it and his sack high and tight, with one red stretch of rope interspersed with the rest.

Aran blinked, shook his head, blinked again. Then blinked a third time. He was still having difficulty breathing. He swallowed audibly.

Dorian smiled like a dragon about to eat a squadron. He stretched his arms over his head, arcing his back, and the ropes shifted and pulled at his body. 

“What are you doing?” Aran exhaled the words, his gaze darting this way and that. Returning again and again to the man radiating pure sexuality in front of him. He couldn’t look away, even when he tried. There were mirrors, for fuck’s sake. Everywhere he looked, there was only another angle of muscular, candlelit, stunning, bound male.

“Having a picnic. What does it look like?”

“It looks like I’m about to be murdered by a qunari.”

“And yet you’re looking… excited.” _ Let me see what’s trapped under that leather _, he thought. Dorian murmured, “Is that what’s thrilling to you about me? The danger? Oh, yes, by all means. He’s about to come in again and find us. Quick. Ravish me before he sniffs us out.”

Aran shook his head, slowly filtering through the lust to sort… Bull patting him on the shoulder. ‘Have fun’. Those ropes… there was no way Dorian could have tied all those himself. He had to have had help, at least, if not… He studied the impish glint in those dark eyes. He exhaled slowly.

“At least say something.” Dorian huffed, “I’ve half a mind to not let you ravish me at all, now.”

Aran swallowed, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Only half?” he asked softly.

“Well, I did go through the trouble.” Dorian’s gaze flicked down to Aran’s fingers, his breath quickening. “You know how I abhor wasting a good effort.”

“Do I?”

The moustache flexed in uncertainty, tongue touching the lower lip, “You were the one who started this.”

“I tied you up in my room?”

“No.” Dorian tilted his head to the side, “But now you know that you can. These are some of my favorite ropes. They’re soft, and yet they hold… so… tight.” He lifted his brows slightly, “Well?”

“You’re bloody devastating.”

The smile returned. “Yes, of course.”

“Do I untie you or…”

“No, darling,” Dorian chuckled, lazily extending a hand out towards him, “You come here and touch me.” 

The rings on his fingers glinted in concert with the rings on the rest of his body. Aran’s attention darted from gleaming ring to gleaming ring, darts of gold illuminating sun warmed flesh, like points of a constellation. 

“Or look,” Dorian murmured, his voice soft and dark as panther fur. “You’re welcome to look. The _ way _ you watch me is so delightful…” He purred, preening, arching, and the knots carefully located at various pressure points on his body pressed and tightened _ just so_. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as ripples of pleasure echoed from those knots, warming him from the inside out. 

Aran swallowed, wary that he might very well start drooling like a mabari hound. He knelt beside the chaise, skimming his fingers over ropes and flesh. “Only look or touch?”

Dorian shivered beneath his touch. The room was warm, filled with the heat from the fire on the other side and the spells he’d cast on the windows to seal in sound and heat. Aran’s fingers on his bare flesh made his cock lift eagerly within its constraints. “Kiss me,” he sighed and Aran did, his tongue moving against Dorian’s in a frenzying, breathless dance. 

Aran moaned, brushing his fingers over Dorian’s nipples to elicit pleased hitches in the mage’s sighs. The gold of the rings was warm and smooth, and he found that playing with them made Dorian grind his hips back onto the cushion. “So beautiful,” he whispered, kissing his way down Dorian’s neck to take the rings one by one between his lips. 

Dorian watched the man gently lap and toy with the rings with his talented tongue, stroking a hand through his hair. _ Finally. Yes. Finally. More_. He ached. Waiting and planning and behaving and pretending to be patient. He wanted to take advantage of the time he’d carved out for this play. He wanted to shove the rogue onto the floor and ride him hard until he came. He felt so good. “You don’t have to be so gentle.”

Aran glanced up, brows drawing, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’ll tell you if you do.” Tentative, still, but- there- yes. Dorian groaned as Aran returned to his chest. He tugged at Dorian’s nipple with his teeth, rolling the ring with his tongue. His hands on Dorian’s sides tightened to grip and stroke, harder. _Yes. Harder_. His fingers wound into the ropes and gave an experimental tug. “Yes!” he moaned, thrusting as knots pressed and pulled.

“The ring-“ Aran panted, “on your-“

“Pulls delightfully,” Dorian watched the rogue exploring him. So inquisitive. Tugging different strands of ropes, exploring the placement of the knots, kissing him and touching him endlessly, more and more aggressively. Every time he groaned, he earned a repeat of whatever had caused it and he could _ see _ the man filing the information away for later. He was _studying_ him and it was wonderful. Aran’s fingers skimmed up the shaft of his cock, turning the ring through the head of his cock curiously. Slowly. Constantly. Breathing on him as he did. Dorian’s toes curled. 

“And I can still..?”

In answer, Dorian pushed his head down and moaned as Aran’s mouth enveloped him. “Yes- Ah, yes-“ Aran, it turned out, was a gifted cocksucker. Eager, toothless, and- ah- practiced. Very practiced. Dorian met his unfathomable eyes as he lifted them, watching Dorian watch him as he bobbed and surged and licked and twisted his tongue through the ring. He reached up to roll the ring at Dorian’s nipple, sucking at his dripping head, and with his other hand pulled at a rope that tightened the knots beneath Dorian’s balls. 

As Dorian began to moan and thrust in earnest, Aran stripped off his jacket and tunic, tossing the cloth off behind him before returning to his studies. He was pale and scarred, more scarred than any man he’d seen other than Bull, and the scars made him beautiful. Survival. He watched them flex on his flesh as Aran breathed to take him deep. Narrower than he usually liked, Dorian considered, stroking his hands through that strange white hair. The hair and the blue of some of the scars reminded him absently of an elf who’d served him wine at one of the coastal parties he’d attended back at home. 

A low growl drew his full attention to the man making love to his cock. Aran bit at the fingers of his right glove, tearing it off and spitting the leather free. His hand was scarred, too. Calloused and long-fingered. One of those fingers pressed between Dorian’s legs, rubbing his hole, tipping inside. Careful, then questing. He watched thoughts skim across Aran’s expression. No doubt wondering at the lubricated, already softened path. Dorian dropped a foot to the floor, opening decadently and entirely to the man’s exploration. Two. He groaned, now those nimble fingers were beginning to make an impact the way that one of Bull’s fingers did. Three. He rocked onto them, pumping into the man’s mouth as Aran fingered his ass, deeper, harder.

Aran exchanged his mouth for his hand, stroking Dorian’s throbbing cock as he panted. “You taste so good.” He licked his lips, “I want to taste your cum.”

Dorian shook his head, rubbing the back of Aran’s head. The man pressed back into his touch like a very lovely, sweaty cat. “Patience.” 

Aran focused on the ropes at the base of his cock. “These stopping you, huh?”

They were. That was their purpose. And the rogue was confident. “Perhaps you just need to earn it.”

Fadestorms glinted with challenge. A rope was pulled. Knots slammed into his perineum as two fingers slammed into him as one, ramming directly and unerringly into the pearl inside of him that made everything glisten diaphanously. Dorian shuddered under the sudden assault. Lights were bursting behind his eyes as pleasure erupted through his whole organ. On and on, _ Maker, _he couldn’t take much more of this. His body was on fire, his cock leaking eagerly against Aran’s tongue. “Yes, yes, it’s the ropes- Ah, Maker, stop!” He gasped, shocked, as Aran did just that. “What? What?!”

“You said ‘stop’.”

Dorian growled, “Don’t. Stop.”

Aran blinked through the sweat trickling into his eyes. His hair was plastered to the side of his face. 

“‘Katoh’- if I say ‘katoh’- that’s when you stop.”

Aran sniffed as he wiped his face in the crook of his arm, _ thinking, thinking _, and nodded. 

“Oh-“ Dorian moaned low as the assault began anew. “Yes- more-“ There… ah, there it was, the flashes of light behind his eyes again. The tension radiating through his body. Sensation and stimuli and… Ah… another finger. Aran was plowing into him with the whole flat of his hand, fingers pummeling the pleasure centers inside with each thrust. “Too much, too much, ah, Maker, make it stop-“ He hissed as the dratted man did just that, drawing breath to correct him… and then exhaled as he felt Aran’s cock tap against his own, rub against his balls, and then... He refocused, watching the other man’s phallus press into him. In, in, in… He was long, just above the average in Dorian’s field of experience, but that little bit extra was enough for an extra push against that spot, while still allowing him to… he sighed, hitching his hips up to watch the base of Aran’s cock seat into him again, again. 

Aran rolled his neck, sighing warmly, “Ah, yeah…” He rocked his hips back and sheathed himself, stroking Dorian’s cock as he thrust. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Yes-“ his breath caught as Aran began playing with the ring at the tip of his cock again, still pumping into him. “Yes- yes-“ Ropes tugged strategically, leather-covered fingertips raked against his skin. 

“Come for me, Dorian,” Aran took hold of his ass, squeezing the tight globe and lifting him for a better angle. “I want to watch you. I want to feel you. I want to-“

“Yes-“ Dorian couldn’t think of other words. He was awash in pleasure; filled, fucked, gripped, tight, slick… “Yes-“ Everything was blurry and warm, binding and blinding. He ran his hands down Aran’s arms, feeling the muscles there tense as the man stroked him and held him. “Yes, yes, yes, yes-!”

“...Dorian?”

“...yes?” Dorian blinked, dazed, the shudders of his orgasm still moving through his body. He could feel Aran softening inside of him. In the hazy heat, Aran licked Dorian’s cum from his hand. Dorian pressed his lips together on a wanton moan. The rogue grinned, leaning down to kiss him languorously. 

“You came…” Aran kissed him between words and Dorian lapped his seed from the man’s lips and tongue, “so much…” He nuzzled Dorian’s cheek, “Ropes?”

“You,” Dorian breathed.

“No… not like that. That was… glorious.”

Dorian nipped at the man’s ear. 

“And you’re still hard.”

Wonderment. Dorian smiled lazily. “_ That _ is the ropes.”

“Fucking brilliant. And that lasts?”

“For a time,” Dorian blinked to clear his vision as the man kissed his way back down again. “Again?”

“Oh, lover, we’re just getting started.”   
  


* * *

  
“What’s it like, that ring?” 

They’d moved to the bed, eventually. Dorian quirked a brow down at Aran as he licked his abdomen. “Pleasant,” he murmured, hoping this was leading to another round of the rogue tongue-diving into his ass.

“Aye, I could tell that much. What’s it like, though? How does it feel, inside? Do you know?” 

“Inside?”

Aran nipped at his navel. “I really want to ride you, but it’s making me a little nervous.” He tugged at a rope with his teeth. “So, what’s it like?”

“I…” He tongued his teeth, watching the fellow’s ivory head dip lower and lower. Ride him? He hadn’t felt inclined to play that part for years, but the way his cock twitched in reaction to the idea was evidence that perhaps that was about to change. “It was fine,” he said, thinking to his own experience. A drunk fellow in an orange robe in the baths at Vyrantium. “I couldn’t really feel it at all.” Or much of anything. He’d been drinking, himself, and he couldn’t remember much about the encounter behind the location, the atrocious color of the robe, and the presence of the ring. How much would he remember about tonight, he wondered. In a few years, would the frenzied orgasm as Aran licked and sucked and kissed his well-fucked hole fade to a memory of white hair and a fire?They were sprawled, sweaty and intertwined; Dorian smoothed a hand over the rogue’s tight ass as he watched the fellow explore him. “You want me to fuck you?”

Aran glanced at him as though he’d just asked if the South was barbaric. _ Obviously, _his eyes gleamed. “If you want,” he said instead.

Dorian squeezed his flesh, smiling. “I think I very well might.”

The rogue grinned, heedlessly soaked in sweat and splatter, and rolled onto him with all the joy of a puppy. “I’ll help, shall I?”


End file.
